Cold blood
by JForward
Summary: Sherlock is bored and decides to do something John won't like, resulting in a horrible time for them both...  Transformation
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock

_John discovers something shocking about Sherlock that neither of them realised before.. As the past returns to strike him._

The rain rumbled against the window, and a lightning fork landed with a loud crackle. John was sat up in his bed, head turned to stare out at the flickering darkness. He looked very tired, dark shadows under his eyes, hands curled into the warmth of the quilt. He swallowed and rubbed his eyes, waiting… the lights were off and the flat was dark. But still he waited.

The hard red light of the alarm clock changed to 2:36am. John's head had started to slip forward, eyelids drifting down a little, when the sound of the door opening and shutting shot him up to his feet. Worry made his leg ache as he limped out the door, flicking on the lounge light; Sherlock looked over at him, squinting slightly, his hair slicked down with the water, scarf soaking and thick jacket damp. "John." he said. There were darker circles under his eyes than normal. "I expected you to be asleep."

"No, Sherlock. I heard you go out." he crossed his arms and tapped his foot a little, cornering him. "Where were you going at midnight in a rainstorm?" he wasn't a happy bunny at all right now. He worried about the flatmate more than he wanted to admit right now; but Sherlock was looking decidedly uncomfortable, a strange look on him as he stripped off his coat and jacket, hanging them up. "I went for a walk." he responded, rubbing his hand over his dripping hair. John continued to scowl at him, but knew he wouldn't get an answer. He turned and slammed the door to his bedroom.

Sherlock finished taking off his outdoor clothing and took a deep breath, leaning on the wall for a moment against a wave of vague nausea that ran over him. He wasn't ashamed of what he had done, but he definitely had the feeling John would not approve at all. He was wearing short sleeves under the jacket, a pale blue tee. He inspected the right arm; several dark bruises at the elbow and just below. He winced as he touched one, then shook it off. After a glass of cold water he headed back to his bed, falling asleep almost instantly.

In the morning John was up before Sherlock, as normal, moving around with a cup of hot tea. He opened his laptop and sat there, beginning to type onto his blog. He moved a little better than before, but still his tongue peeked out and he typed single-fingered.

_ "Sherlock went out last night. Midnight, with that horrible storm.."_

He glanced out the window; the light was bright and warm. The world seemed refreshed.

_"I don't know why he did that. He wouldn't talk when he came back in and I cornered him. He seemed ill, almost; not just tired. I've never seen him quite like that."_

He stopped typing and sat back, sipping his tea for a long, comfortable moment, letting out some of his discomfort in the hot steam. Then there came a loud thud from Sherlock's room. He sat up stiffly. It wasn't normal for there to be anything like that; he was normally very quiet. "Sherlock?" he called, moving over toward the door, leaving the tea next to his laptop. "Sherlock, is everything alright?" he stood near the door; there came a faint call back, then a stronger, "Yes, I'm fine!" though he did sound a little strange.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" he said, after a pause, not sure what to say. After receiving an affirmative, he went to make it, still feeling worried; there was another thud, and then five minutes later Sherlock emerged, dressed in his dark purple shirt. He looked just as tired as he had last night, but he smiled at John and took the drink, watching him sit down at the laptop. There was the normal lack of a thank you as he went to the window and looked out of it, sipping the tea. A few flakes of snow had just begun to fall.

"What was the noise?" John asked, in the silence, which was still comfortable. Sherlock didn't take his eyes off the street outside and the swirling flakes. "I knocked my lamp of the desk. No problem." and John was startled. That wasn't something Sherlock did. He wasn't clumsy at all. Strange. He didn't say anything more though, and Sherlock remained in place, watching the falling flakes, before disappearing for his daily needs. When he returned, and swept up a piece of toast off John's plate, followed by a flop onto the sofa, John had finished the blog post and now began to pay proper attention to the world once more.

"So. What happened last night?" he asked, getting to his feet, moving over to sit on the chair nearby, still nursing half a cup of tea. Sherlock pretended to not have heard him, flicking through the newspaper from the table doggedly. "Sherlock. You went out at midnight in a _storm. _Why?" he narrowed his eyes and leant forward. Sherlock sighed and leant back, looking at him in the eye. "You will not believe me if I tell you, John." there was an edge of amusement in his eyes now, the gray glittering. He pulled up the sleeve violently and John inhaled sharply.

"You've had blood tests?" he asked, bemused and confused, and just a little confused. "No, John, no!" he laughed, leaning back, feeling a little dizzy again. "I got _drug tests. _They looked interesting, in the paper. I was bored." He shrugged at John's growing angry face. He got up and went for his coat. "Woah!" John was on his feet, and indeed, he was angry. Sherlock whirled around. "You're going to tell me that what I did was childish and irresponsible. I recognise your expression. You're angry because I didn't tell you last night and you're concerned about me. That's why you made me a cup of tea. You've posted on your blog about me but you're not reading the newspaper because you wanted to focus on me, for some reason." he grinned. "And no, I don't regret doing it."

John was furious now, up on his feet and staring as Sherlock tugged on his outdoor clothes. "Where in the hell are you going now?" he snapped, taking in the mischievous grin on his companion's face. "To find a case. Why not?" he said, and John stepped in front of him. That look fell away. "I've had it." John said, softly, dangerously. "You are goddamn staying here, if I have to get Mrs Hudson to guard you, so be it. You are going nowhere today, unless Lestrade calls, and then I'll be going with you. Understand?" and there he stood.

Sherlock smirked, and undid that clothing. "Don't you love it when you stand up for yourself, John?" he murmured. John frowned as he turned away, hanging the coat up - then he made a noise deep in his chest, and his knees buckled. Alarmed, John didn't think to act until Sherlock caught himself on the sofa, straightening up slowly, a confused look in his eyes. He sat down back on the sofa without prompting, and John moved to sit opposite again. "Maybe I will stay in today." Sherlock said softly, and stretched out his legs, flicking the television on. John just stared at him, trying not to mention what had just happened.

He stayed in that day as well, thankfully he was off; he watched carefully, by now very worried. He insisted on checking the bruises over, but there was nothing he could do, really, now that the damage had been done. Sherlock continued to brush it off, as ever, but when he got up to go to the toilet later in the evening, he had taken but four paces before he let out another pain noise, buckling. John was quicker this time, catching him before he could fall, helping his straighten up. "Thank you." he said, as he got upright, rubbing his chest. "Just a… bad hiccup." but of course, the doctor saw straight through it, terror wrapping around his skin like a prickly blanket.

He heard the vomiting but didn't say a word when he came back in and washed his mouth out with water. "Right. Okay." he sat down opposite John, leaning back with his eyes shut, dark shadows below his eyes, skin pale and clammy. "Maybe this wasn't… the most genius of ideas I have been struck by." he murmured.

The rest of the evening rolled by with no more incidents, although Sherlock wasn't very responsive to John's questions or discussions. He claimed a headache and went to be very early, soon followed by John, who couldn't bear the silent house.

He was woken by a horrible crunching noise. Then a hard, harsh choking noise; he was down the stairs in a moment, heart pounding, knowing immediately that it was coming from Sherlock's room. He banged on the door; "Sherlock! Are you okay?" there was a strangled noise of pain from within, and a hard panting. He was sure he heard his name, and he pushed the door open, thankful it had no lock. He froze at what he saw; Sherlock was on the floor, doubled over. A small puddle of blood nearby on the floor, and blood on his chin. His left arm was pulled in tight to his chest, and the other on the floor; he wore only jogging bottoms and was shaking, a thin gleam of sweat on his skin.

"John." he rasped again, and shuddered, letting out another noise, but now it was a shout of agony, his back rippling and his arm giving way, leaving him on his side on the floor. John moved to him in an instant. "What the hell is happening?" he asked, panic in his voice, as Sherlock stared at him. "Sorry, John." he choked out, "I think I might be having… a negative reaction. isn't it fascinating? Agh!" Sherlock cried out, twisting, and another hard crunch came from in his body. More blood ran down his face.

"Oh sweet jesus, no…" John backed away. "The hospital. I'll call - we can't…" Sherlock's arm snapped out, grabbing the front of his pyjama shirt. "No, stay, please." tears ran down his face as well now, mingling. Yet another crunch and he rolled back onto his front again, but they seemed to be growing. John stayed crouched, a hand over his mouth. Another crunch and he collapsed again.

Sherlock dug his nails into the carpet, and let out a scream of agony, making John jerk back in shock, tears in his eyes. "Help me." the whisper was soft, so soft John thought he'd imagined it; but there was the trembling form of his friend. Then, with a tremendous ripping noise, the skin split from his shoulder all down each side, a bone spur breaking out. "Oh my god, oh my… sweet jesus…" John backed away. This was unreal, impossible… the same happened on both sides, calcium building quickly, shaping into new things. Sherlock seemed incapable of noise, his skin cracking and flaking in places. His head twisted to look at John, the eyes wide.

As he stared into his friend's face the pupils dilated, narrowing into catlike slits, and he jerked and shook his head like an animal, trying to focus his eyes. Black claws were growing over his old nails, splitting the darkening skin, as his curls began to fall away. His jaw and cheek crunched and split, stretched out a good few inches. The tears continued falling, and it was clear he was in agony. His body grew larger, changed shape, his ribcage barrelling, bone growing from his pelvis. It was like a werewolf's transformation, but so much more horrific. Dark red and gold scales spread over him, his ears like tiny cat's on the side of his head; leathery wings. The size of a Labrador with powerful back legs, blacks claws, and a stubby but deadly-toothed mouth.

It was like a pocketsize dragon.

When everything was over Sherlock's strength gave out and he collapsed sideways. John knelt in the blood to stare in his face. "Please, please tell me this is a nightmare, a dream, a trick, anything." he whispered, touching what had been a human face minutes ago. A thin line of feathers rose up on his scalp, as if responding to the touch, and a low whimpering noise came from his throat. "Sherlock. Oh my god." he whispered, as the animal eyes, still that grey, slid shut. "Please let this be a nightmare."


	2. Chapter 2

Cold Blood - P2

_Hiya. Don't own Sherlock, etc, etc. The dragon creature is of my creation but it's a basic pattern, so I'm not like OMG NO USING MAH DEESIGN._

_Hope you like this chapter. Going to try to keep it snappy._

John awoke slowly, rubbing his eyes and wondering why his body felt so stiff and uncomfortable. As he stared at the floor, eyes opened, he realised that was staring at a puddle of blood nearby, and pushed himself up on one arm as everything that had happened hit him with a thud. Then he was up on his knees, looking around for any sign of Sherlock, or the creature… the blood was still on the floor, dried now, and he looked at the bright light in the window. It was probably just before midday, and the yellowy light told him that the snow must've settled overnight, although he could see no flakes now.

Unfolding his stiff body, he got upright fully, wondering why he'd slept on the floor, not quite able to get his mind past the thought of that hellish transformation his best friend had gone through. He moved to the door he'd left open, then heard a low thud and a noise that sounded a lot like Sherlock when he got very frustrated. Speeding up, he went around and into the bathroom; the door was open, and a half-spaded tip of a gold-red tail was just poking out. His heart thundered; this was real. It was happening. "Oh sweet jesus." he whispered again, covering his mouth as he went into the room.

Sherlock - no, he couldn't think of it like that - the dragon was crouched, paws on the side of the bath, and head on a longish, thick neck, bent into the tub. "What are you… doing?" he asked, in a whisper, and the dragon's head snapped up, turning almost all the way around to look at him. It opened it's mouth - showing almost canine teeth - but there was no threat. "Www…waaah…" it whined and then shook it's head violently, the little ears flattening down. John felt tears rise into his eyes as he saw the creature's own again; even with draconic pupil, they were Sherlock's gray.

"Waaaahter." it managed to speak, unnatural lips struggling with human language, and John started. Of course; even the size he was, and with those paws - he could see they had thumbs, but they were thick, and he wouldn't be able to control them yet - Sherlock wouldn't've been able to get a drink. He turned and left for the kitchen, moving quickly, hearing the clicking of the claws on the floor. In the kitchen, John hesitated a moment, but realised that Sherlock wouldn't be too ashamed of this, as it was necessary. He filled a shallow bowl with water and placed it onto the floor as the dragon came in.

As he drank, John took the moment to examine him, but just from sight for now; he was covered in hard, diamond-shaped scales that didn't overlap, fading from patchy golds to reds, with darker reds on his head and more gold on his underside. He was crouching like a cat would, but when he stood he probably came to hip height, so - four feet? And a long, flexible neck lifting the head up like a horse's. The wings came back and twisted up, forming a sideways L, so that the tips touched each other at about the same level as his head, over his back; and a tail as long as his body. The feet looked like raptor feet at the rear, dinosaur style, with a larger claw where the big toe would be, whereas his front ones were like clumpy hands. The claws weren't retractable, clearly, and pure black.

The whole body looked sleep, handsome, up to the chiselled face that seemed to carry some of Sherlock's own appearance. It was as if a hand had grabbed his nose and mouth and pulled, creating about two inches of smoothly curving snout. Those humanish eyes, facing forward; hairless catlike ears that sat partially down his head like a human's. The weirdest thing, of course, was that ridge of two dozen or so feathers on the crown of his head halfway down his neck. The weirdest thing about his friend turning into a monster because of an experimental drug.

John felt like he was high as hell himself at that moment.

When Sherlock had finished drinking - he cleaned half the bowl away with ease, and had drunk like a cat or dog - he sat up, onto his haunches, and stared at John, coming up to his ribs, the head tilted back as if begging John to fix this. "Do you mind if I…" the doctor crouched down and gently touched the scales on his neck. Sherlock made no move to stop him, just tilting his head slightly. The scales felt thick, and knotty, around his neck, but as he ran his hands gently over the curved face, they softened to feel snakelike. His skin felt cool - no wonder he was so sluggish. Must've become cold bloodeed.

There were things about him that began to make him sure this _was _Sherlock, no doubt; the collarbone jutted out, he could feel it, and the hard angularity of the face. His ribs, almost sticking out because he was thin, but covered in musculature; and the way he held himself, uncertain of this body, as if he was twitching and full of energy inside but so still and … feline. Not like a reptile at all. He found that the feathers were raising and falling on the top of Sherlock's head, depending on how he felt; and when asked, he demonstrated a range of control, from full up and 'flagging' status to almost invisible. The feathers were a very dark gold.

He could stretch out a wing individually; there was hardly room for it at full length in the flat. It stretched triple his body length, thin and powerful, not seeming that way when folded up. John knew enough about animal physiology that - if he could work it out - this dragon would definitely fly. Understanding Sherlock, he knew it was possible that he would. The thought made him scared; his friend, transformed, unrecognisable, tangled in electricity wires and dying, but he shook the thought away.

The teeth were fairly cainid, with huge canines that went gum to gum, and the rest being 'ordinary' size. He had a flap of skin in his mouth, like reptiles, but it looked like he couldn't dislocate his jaw, and there was certainly no sign of fire. After John had finished looking him over, there came a low whine, and he lowered his head. "Can you speak?" John asked, softly, crouching in front of him; strange, but there seemed to be darker blemishes on the inside of his left arm, as if markings where the needles that had caused this had gone in.

"Yyyyhhh" the noise came from Sherlock's throat, the mouth moving awkwardly, "Yeeessss" he managed; and they began to try to talk. O's, w's, anything that involved closed lips was very difficult for him, but he managed to talk well enough that John could understand what he meant. The scientists hadn't told him anything about this; the drug was meant to be a chemical to increase energy without causing excessive tiredness afterwards. It was supposed to be using something 'iron-erring' which John assumed meant 'pioneering'. Poor Sherlock. He found himself stroking the eye ridge just before the feathers, with Sherlock's head on his knee, on the floor, eyes half shut.

"Right. We have to fix this, we have to." he stood up and Sherlock sat up again, staring at him, before letting out an annoyed huff and beginning to circle. He laid on his side, staring at the door, trying to hint, letting out a whine; and it clicked. "Mrs Hudson." he whispered, and shot to his feet, "Should we tell her?" Sherlock shook his head, hard; this would be too much, even for her, it made no sense, it was like the Baskervilles - he shot to his feet and into the bathroom, managing to swing the door shut with his tail while he heard John talk to Mrs Hudson.

In this form, his hearing and sight were exemplary; blues seemed brighter to him, and he could see a range of ultraviolet lights. He found that he could slip a film over his eyes and see in heat, too, though it was something that required focus. Curling on the cool tiles, which felt unpleasant to a body that now craved heat, he listened to the talking; John assuring Mrs Hudson that they hadn't known she was out last night, nothing had happened, glad she had a good trip, Sherlock had nipped out he wasn't sure what for. Eventually he got rid of her, and came to find the dragon, who turned to leave the room. Padding past John - goodness it felt strange moving like this - he went into the lounge and hopped up onto the sofa, curling like a massive dog.

"Hhheaat." this was frustrating, the limited use of speech, the way he sounded like a disabled person. His tongue felt thick and unwieldy in this new huge mouth, and kept hitting teeth he hadn't held before. His stomach let out a growl as John turned the heater on, and he looked around in alarm, thinking it was a growl. Sherlock rolled onto his back, displaying his belly as he stretched his front paws, like a cat. Every sinew responded and a great relaxation rolled over him as the heat warmed him, beginning to build his energy. It was incredibly pleasant.

He realised he'd napped when the smell of something delicious and a sizzling sound hit his ears. Bacon, it clicked. He rolled off the sofa and landed neatly, surprised by his own dexterity, as he headed into the kitchen. He almost jogged; now he wanted to run, move around, as the heat filled his blood. John looked down, that slight alarm that he was getting used to now, showing in his eyes. After gently head butting him in the back of the knees, he hopped onto his back feet, putting paws on the windowsill and staring out into the street, and the snow. His mouth opened a little and he exhaled onto the window, closing his eyes. A few tears ran down his face; interesting, unusual for an animal to be able to cry.

He let out a low, deep whimpering noise, that he hadn't been able to make as a human - he desperately wanted to be able to go out there, explore, alarm people; he could see a woman and a child walking past with his nose pressed to the glass. She had been abused as a child and promised never to do it to her own, husband - no, fiancé - had left her for another woman, and now she'd turned on the child. He could see it all. Nothing would happen about it. Dull people. But still… he twitched his wings again and let out a howling noise, not realising he was doing it until John's arms wrapped around his shoulders, hugging him, trying to calm him. He shut off the noise and whined, the tears still running down his muzzle.

"Jaaahn." he whined, pawing at the floor, listening to the soft noises he was making, like calming a frightened dog; they were nice, though, and it did calm him, slowly. A shiver ran up his spine and the feathers on his forehead rose. "Fly." he murmured, though it sounded more like "Fie." He got to his feet and went into the lounge, half spreading his wings as best he could, to get the message across. But John was shaking his head, "No." he said, putting a plate of bacon on the low table and sitting on the sofa with his own bacon and eggs, although he didn't feel like it. "Eat, Sherlock. Now." his voice caught on the name and he found himself wincing, folding his ears down. He didn't want his name affixed to this … monster. _Freak. _

He spent most of the day laying on the sofa, feeling unhappy; John went out to his day job, and he whined and twitched. There was a bowl of water on the floor; John hadn't known what to do for food so there was also a bowl of cold tinned meatballs. He was too proud to eat those but he was soon very hungry, curled up with his eyes half shut, growling to himself. He wanted to fly, he wanted to get out so very badly… but he didn't. When John came home he was admonished for not eating, and he lost his temper. Rearing like a bear, rear paws spread wide, he was taller than John, and he let out a short roar. "I am not a DOG!" he tried to say, although from John's white face he wasn't sure the message was heard. He didn't care. Landing on all fours he went into the room, past the blood spots on his floor, and laid on his bed, curving his wing over his face.

John didn't go into his room.

Sherlock didn't move the following morning. He desperately needed the toilet, a drink, something to eat; his whole body throbbed and ached. But overwhelmingly, he didn't want to move. He felt dizzy, sick, and his thoughts kept slipping away. He was truly, utterly terrified. Then there was a noise at the door. He didn't bother to acknowledge it until John touched the side of his face. "Sherlock, you're freezing cold." he whispered, and switched the heater on. As heat began to flow into him, he felt a little better, but the needs were still there. With a soft whimper, he slowly began to get up. "Need… tahlet." he managed, looking ashamed, and John gave him such a look of pity he was tempted to growl.

Somehow he managed to use the actual toilet; despite his size, the opposable, clumsy thumbs worked well enough for the flush. That made him happy and depressed in equal measure; if he could do that, he might end up spending his life in a flat. John would leave, eventually; Kafka's story of the cockroach came to mind and he felt sick of himself at the very thought. He began to scratch at his scales, with his back and rear feet, trying to dig his claws in, biting at his elbows, remembering his younger teenage years, until John realised what he was doing and batted him on the nose with a newspaper.

The shock of that brought him back to himself and he began a coughing laugh, which John joined in on. But the strange, aching illness feeling remained in his skin as he shivered and curled up next to a heater. John brought him food to eat and sat near him, watching the television in the lounge; yet the feeling got worse and worse. He was staring at nothing - the images on the television strange and cloudy, the static making it unhearable. There came a large pain in his chest and he had a little trouble breathing, trying to get John's names through his lips. He felt the fingers, burning hot, on his cheek, murmurings that he was there.

Agony rolled through his body and he coughed, hard, a little blood dripping from his throat. He heard John's whispered terror, the comforts, trying to assure him he'd be fine, he'd live. His skin throbbed like a creature itself; he felt like his very cells were screaming in fire. His claws flexed and unflexed and he panted, unaware now of John crouching, stroking his neck gently, tears running down his face. "Please don't die, please, please.." he whispered. He'd rather have a Sherlock like this that he had to guard all his life than no Sherlock at all and a dragon corpse. Then there came a crunch from his spine and a low, gutteral noise. He was sure for a moment he was dead. Then there was a hacking, and he spat up more blood, and John breathed again.

The noise was familiar. Like when he'd found him transforming. Heart hammering in his throat he backed off a little, watching as the neck crunched and twisted, a low howl. "Quiet, quiet…" he whispered, so worried about Mrs Hudson; but in terror for his friend too. There came more crunches, louder, quicker, and he snarled lowly. His teeth were slipping back into his jaw. It was… it was impossible. But he was changing back. John bit his knuckles so hard that they bled as the body twisted on the floor, over ten minutes and screaming, snarling, changing back to a nude Sherlock, bloodied and white as anything, laying on the floor. "Oh my god." he whispered.

It appeared that his friend was unconscious, but he checked. Still alive, still breathing, pulse slowly coming down. He switched off the heat and laid a blanket over Sherlock, shaking, as the door was hammered on. He threw it open; Mrs Hudson was there, white as a sheet, "John, what was that noise? Why is there blood on your hands?" she pushed him aside and came in, spotting Sherlock and the blood near him instantly, covering her mouth and taking a step back from him. "Is he alive?" she whispered, and John took her hand with his non-bloody one. "Yes. He's fine. Something happened - something awful. But he's okay now." he covered his eyes, getting blood on his face as the tears ran. "He's okay now."

END

AN: _Might make this into a series, if I keep the muse up… reviews help, a lot. Ideas on where to go with this and future instalments would be absolutely loved. Yes, this story isn't over yet… _


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